Chapter 1

The sky, heavy with storm clouds, sank into complete darkness. From within it, light split the heavens, carving open cracks.

“Kahk! Ptoo!”

Beomjin spat out thick, sticky saliva, his breath ragged. Fragments of teeth rolled across the asphalt. Blood streamed from somewhere on his scalp, traced down his ear, and dripped onto his shoulder.

Only two remained standing—barely. Himself, and the man before him.

Jinyoung, who had charged in so boldly, now lay lifeless, body torn in two. Uwan, who had muttered “no chance of winning” over and over, was reduced to dust—scattered so finely he couldn’t even be buried.

Beomjin bit down on his dangling thumbnail. The throbbing pain in his finger didn’t even register. Even if he survived this, he doubted he’d live to see the next morning.

Every breath reeked of blood, rising from his nose and mouth.

The man before him stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring down arrogantly. His short, damp hair and unkempt beard glinted silver. His ash-gray coat was soaked only with rain, untouched by a single drop of blood. Deep wrinkles framed eyes that shone with unwavering resolve.

“Young one, don’t rush your death. This is your last chance. Leave now, Dog-Head.”

Ha. That damned word again—Dog-Head¹. Everyone kept calling him that…

“Who the hell are you calling Dog-Head, you bastard Snake-Head? This isn’t over yet!!”

Forcing his back straight, Beomjin staggered side to side. He barely managed to lift his trembling fist up to his chin.

If he’d known it would come to this, he would’ve trained harder. Pointless regrets now.

With a bitter smile, he swallowed down a clot of blood. The sky swallowed by light, corpses scattered everywhere, collapsed buildings, and cars twisted into scrap. The end of the world was laid out before his eyes.

Disappointment flickered across the man’s face.

“You’ll struggle until the very end? Pathetic. Unbelievably foolish…”

As he spoke, the sky roared. At the same time, Beomjin lunged. Someone had to stop him—and only Beomjin could.

Could he?

He shoved aside the creeping doubt in his mind. He could. He would.

The man’s gaze tracked him. In the blink of an eye, Beomjin closed the twenty-meter gap. Worthy of praise, sure—but ultimately useless. The man only needed to eliminate him to prevent future trouble.

Three steps away. Beomjin clenched his fist, then veered off to the man’s flank. A hook from the blind spot to the jaw, then an uppercut to finish it as he fell—

But the man never lost sight of him. The light swimming through the storm clouds aligned perfectly with his gaze.

As Beomjin’s fist swung, the man turned his head and muttered,

“You’re just as pitiful as your mother.”

…What?

The words slipped from his lips like a whisper, but pierced straight into Beomjin’s ear.

What the hell did he just say—

Beomjin’s eyes flicked to the rumbling sky.

Shit.

Too late.

Blinding light swallowed his vision. It condensed into a single point and came crashing down.

A speed beyond thought itself. No dodging. No closing his eyes.

Lightning struck, spearing Beomjin directly. Agony seared through every nerve.

Through dimming pupils, Beomjin saw death itself.

“9!”

Just as his consciousness slipped into nothingness, a voice boomed in his ears.

“8!”

What… was that sound? He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or shut. The whiteness still lingered before him.

“7!!”

The scattered lights regained their color. The buzzing shape closest to him wasn’t a fly—it was a half-bald man shouting in his face.

“6!!”

Who the hell was this guy, yelling at him? Awareness seeped back, and Beomjin slowly turned his head to take in his surroundings.

“5!!!”

“Hey! Baek Beomjin!!! Open your eyes, damn it!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A familiar voice. Oh? That was Coach Park. What was he doing here? Why was he pounding the floor like that?

“4!!!”

“Get up, Baek Beomjin, you bastard! You’re ending it after just one round?! Snap out of it!”

“What’s his problem? Did a fire break out or something…?”

Beomjin pushed himself up from the mat. Only then did he notice—he was shirtless, wearing shiny shorts, with red gloves strapped to his fists.

What the hell… was this? Some kind of dream?

“3!!!”

“That’s it! Get up! You can do this!”

“…What the hell is going on?”

“2!!!!”

Beyond the referee’s count, Beomjin finally spotted the man leaning casually against the opposite corner. Dyed yellow hair, crooked teeth flashing in a smirk—Lee Sangcheol. The bastard who had handed him that humiliating defeat.

He shot up in shock. This was a ring. A match in progress. But more than that—how the hell was he here?

The referee, dressed neatly in a suit, stepped closer to the unsteady Beomjin.

“Baek Beomjin, can you continue?”

He waved two fingers lightly before Beomjin’s eyes, watching carefully to see if his pupils tracked the movement.

“Y-yeah, I can!”

The answer spilled out of habit before he even processed what was happening. The referee stepped back, and Sangcheol, waiting in the opposite corner, slipped back into his stance.

“That’s it! Show them what you’ve got!”

Coach Park’s rough voice boomed out, strangely comforting, like the voice of a father. Still, nothing made sense.

“Fight!”

At the shout, Sangcheol closed the distance with frightening speed. His sharp punches came flying, and Beomjin scrambled back, trying to shake him off. But Sangcheol pressed in, relentless, as if determined to finish it this round.

A jab grazed Beomjin’s cheek—the sting, the forgotten sensation of impact. Sweat, heat, and breath all tangled in the cramped ring. Two fighters, pouring everything into a desperate dance meant to topple the other.

Lee Sangcheol. No monstrous power, no lightning speed, but an unshakable force. With sheer endurance and quick reads, he’d earned his place as #3 in Korea’s super middleweight rankings.

Beomjin had once dismissed him as a thug who happened to learn boxing. He smiled bitterly now, regretting that arrogance.

First the jab. Then a half-beat faster straight. Followed by a hook from outside the left edge of his vision.

Every punch was clear as day. By watching Sangcheol’s pupils, Beomjin could tell exactly where the next blow was aimed.

He tilted his torso back, letting the hook whistle past. Last time, that very punch had nailed him in the temple and left him unable to rise. Yes—he remembered. That had really happened.

He’d thought everything ended when the lightning struck him down. But this wasn’t a dream, and it wasn’t heaven. It was reality. A past reality.

So then… what the hell was happening?

Sangcheol didn’t let up, throwing punch after punch. But not a single one landed on Beomjin’s face. It was enough to make one doubt if this was really the same guy who had been floored by a simple straight just moments before.

A jab?

Beomjin slipped sideways and snapped his fist into Sangcheol’s face.

Thwack!

A light punch sent Sangcheol flying nearly two meters back. His neck twisted at an ugly angle, but his eyes were already dazed and unfocused.

Shaking it off, Sangcheol ground his teeth. He charged like a beast, ramming Beomjin with his shoulder. Then, timing the retreat, he threw a furious blow at Beomjin’s midsection.

Clang!

The bell rang, ending the round. The punch smacked uselessly against Beomjin’s guard.

Heh.

Beomjin curled his lips in a mocking smile. Sangcheol’s eyes wavered when they met his.

No words were exchanged, but Beomjin understood exactly what was going through Sangcheol’s head. That faint quake in his gaze—it was the despair of prey staring down a predator.

Shaking his head lightly, Beomjin headed for his corner where Coach Park was waiting. The coach’s fists were clenched tight, and he bounced on his feet like an excited child, unable to keep still.

“You bastard! What the hell was that?! You could fight this well, so why did you take such a beating in the first round? If you keep this up, you can win!!”

Beomjin rinsed his mouth with the water Coach Park handed him. Just moments ago, he had been in a battlefield reeking of death. Compared to that, this was nothing more than a warm-up.

“But don’t let your guard down. Think of this as the real start. As long as your punches land clean, you can win!”

Coach Park raised his fist high, brimming with energy. Unlike his coach, Beomjin was calm. He wasn’t out of breath, and his head wasn’t rattled.

Sangcheol wasn’t even a threat. He wasn’t bothersome. The sharp trajectory of his punches now seemed painfully clear.

Finish the match first. Think later.

Serene, Beomjin asked,

“What’s today’s date?”

“Today? Why’re you asking that all of a sudden?”

“I just want to check something.”

“It’s April 20th.”

“The year… 2024, right?”

Coach Park’s brow twitched at Beomjin’s repeated questioning.

“Did you bang your head when you went down earlier? You feeling dizzy? Why the hell’s that important right now?”

“No, it’s fine. I was just asking.”

April 20th, 2024.

Beomjin clenched and unclenched his fists inside his gloves, biting his lip. He had gone back to the past. To that day—the one etched into history.

Was this a chance given by heaven?

The bell rang, signaling the start of the second round.

That damned old bastard.

“You’re just as pitiful as your mother.”

The man’s last words echoed in his head. What did they mean?

Sangcheol charged harder than he had in round one. Without even forming a proper stance, he swung directly at Beomjin’s face.

Thwack!

A clean hit. Sangcheol smiled at the impact, relief flooding his shoulders. He thought he had won.

But Beomjin didn’t so much as wobble. Instead, his glove slowly rose, brushing Sangcheol’s arm aside.

“Damn it. I’m trying to think, and you just won’t get out of my way.”

Killing intent wrapped around Sangcheol. Without realizing it, he stepped back. His gaze dropped from Beomjin’s face. His body trembled like a dog staring down a predator—pure instinct, not will.

“Sangcheol! What the hell are you doing?!!”

The older coach from Sangcheol’s corner shouted. At the sound, Sangcheol sheepishly raised his lowered guard again. Then, with a burst of desperation, he swung hard at Beomjin.

But Beomjin was waiting. He slipped aside effortlessly, snapping his arm like a whip. His glove smashed across Sangcheol’s right cheek.

Crack!

Sangcheol spun like a figure skater before collapsing unconscious.

The referee rushed in, checked his condition, then crossed his arms—match over. Coach Park leapt into the ring, cheering, as the small crowd clapped.

But Beomjin couldn’t share in the joy.

His blood ran cold.

In the corner of the nearly empty stands, two figures stood, clapping with disinterested expressions.

Jinyoung and Uwan. The last sight of them was still burned vividly into his eyes.